enjoy my work. i post what i write, what i see, and what it means to me. good or bad, comment away.


short collection two

i. Ocelot

What a lovely spot, Ocelot.
As long as you do what you ought,
You’ll surely never be caught.
But don’t get caught up in haught, Ocelot.

Perhaps I’ll name you Scott, Ocelot.
Misbegot? Surely not.
Your battle well fought, though
Unfortunately for naught, because
Your pelt is what I’ve sought, Ocelot.

This isn’t what I thought, Ocelot.
This feeling what I got
Is regret, from which was wrought
This poem that I jot, Ocelot.

Apricot, kumquat, hot snot dot.
I no longer what to rhyme with you, Ocelot.

ii. History

Leave your mark.
Deep or shallow, leave it nonetheless.
And be sure to do it intentionally.
Your intention doesn’t determine its actuality
So why not make it intentional?

You will be remembered.
Epic or tragedy?
Giver or taker? Reaper or maker?
Change will occur, so ensure it is positive.
Leave no stone unturned, no path untraveled.
Use less; love more; touch many.

They say history is determined by the winners
Defy convention; make history by losing

iii. Until Death Comes

Until death comes
Until my final breath comes
I’ll breathe deep from wells sprung
From mouth
Swallow doubt and reach out to
South, West, North, East; all around
At the very least I’ll speak
My mind in time with verse and rhyme
And listen in kind
On this page mine is yours, yours is mine
Until death comes

iv. The Last Drink

A solitary solitaire adorns her wizened finger of promises
As she sits at the window table
Two glasses sit beside her; one empty, one full
Martini dirty with forgotten hopes
A third across the table too,
To remain there as every time before.
The chandelier reflects from her
Moistened eye
As it does the solitary solitaire
In solitude.
Again he won’t come.
Again she forgets.
Again she’ll return.
A weekly ritual cemented in
Her forgetfulness
Of loss (though not of love)
Each night the last night
Each drink the last drink
Each the last.
Each the last.


short collection one

i. solitude.

sitting in the e m p t y
his footsteps echo off the cold, hard
mottled stone ears hear not

i look; his eye averts instinctually
perhaps he wonders what brings me here as well
but mortal consolation is not what we seek

no words exchanged; our acknowledgement of
the other found in the respect



ii. ripple.

rocks cause rrrrrripplesssss on your surface
yet you wear those rocks to pebbles to sand

theybreakyouquicklybut you return to Serene

you wear them down slowly over time to


so i ask? who is more powerful.

iii. cleansed.

partly forgivable
mostly rememberable
somewhat affirmative
wholly negligible
never usable
always using
occasionally sealable
frequently washable

TMI or Salt Tears and Sugar Tissues

She returned to the counter
after 'bout half an hour
desiring a cinnamon bun
the final one

I did not ask why; frankly
I did not care. My emotional
connection started and ended
with the smile I offered from
behind my cash register shield.

“I've had a bad week,” she offers
as if to explain why she orders the
sweet at the end of her meal.

“And when I am sad, I eat.”

While this was rather apparent, she
seemed to have mistaken the stains on
my apron for the scribblings of a
psychiatrist's leather-bound journal.
Surely it was not justification she
sought because she had already
found that in the ding of the
microwave I used to heat up
her pastry. Twenty-five seconds of silence
passed, and that bell was all she
needed to seal herself into her private
hell. I handed her the formerly frozen
comfort food and she turned away, offering a
curt “Thank you” and returning to
her seat by the window.

Each bite tainted by a sadness I had
No way of lessening.